


Silent Echoes

by WriterGirl128



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott, Angst, Banshee Lydia Martin, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, F/M, Ghost AU I guess?, Kidnapping tw, M/M, McCall Pack, Minor Violence, Pack Dynamics, Post Season 4, Protective Scott
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2306687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterGirl128/pseuds/WriterGirl128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was no surprise to anyone when they ended up trapped in the McCall house by yet another furious supernatural creature. The part that surprised them was that it wasn’t a werewolf, or a wendigo, or a berserker. It was a ghost. A very emotional ghost.</p><p>OR</p><p>The one where Lydia is taken, and a ghost helps the pack find her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened and I don't know why but it did? Also this is a really short first chapter :/ Sorry!

Things didn’t end with the deadpool. Things didn’t end with Peter being locked up in Eichen House.  Things didn’t even end with Kate fleeing, and Chris joining the Calaveras to track her down. No, that’d be too easy. They couldn’t get away from trouble that easily.

It was no surprise to anyone when they ended up trapped in the McCall house by yet another furious supernatural creature. The part that surprised them was that it wasn’t a werewolf, or a wendigo, or a berserker. It was a ghost.

A very emotional ghost.

“How the hell are we supposed to fight off a ghost?” Stiles breathed heavily, the bat in his hands swinging harmlessly through the intangible being hovering mere feet away from him.

Scott, who was standing protectively in front of Kira and his mother, winced as the chair the poltergeist had thrown at them collided with his shoulder, splintering apart and sending wood shards flying. “You’re asking me?” he exclaimed, swiping at the ghost with his claws to no avail. “I don’t know!”

Another chair flew across the room, this time towards Liam, who was in a similar position as Scott, shielding Mason from the objects whipping angrily around the room. Amidst it all was a ghostly sob, a broken wail—like she was in mourning. The chair exploded to pieces, and with it, her screams got louder.

Scott winced against the noise, his ears ringing painfully. It was so loud he could barely hear Kira swear behind his back. “Lydia isn’t answering,” she told him, a little breathless. “She isn’t picking up.” Then he heard the unmistakable sound of her katana being drawn out of its sheath.

Stiles swung at the transparent figure again, but it did nothing but make her angrier, and the objects flew a little faster, lamps colliding with walls and the cushions of the couch impacting so hard that they burst into shreds and feathers. Stiles was at Scott’s side in a second, Kira at his other as they faced the screaming ghost.

“What does she even want from us?” Kira asked, her sword slicing straight through the air she was materialized in, yet doing no harm.

“Salt!” Stiles cried suddenly, comprehension dawning on his face. “We need salt!”

  The ghost didn’t like the realization, which was all they needed to know that Stiles was right. She screamed, unbelievably, even louder. Then there were shards of wood and broken glass flying towards Stiles at impossible speeds.

Scott didn’t hesitate in pushing Stiles out of the way, grabbing his shoulders and turning his own back against the ghost, taking the shards in his place. They hit him, digging into his back like a thousand daggers, a thousand bullets. It felt like being shot, but he managed to only stagger a little.

“Kira,” he exhaled painfully, through his teeth, “go get the salt from the kitchen.”

Kira, wide-eyed at what had just happened, froze for a second before nodding and hastily retreating to the kitchen.

Stiles was still blinking at Scott, half-worried, half in awe, when Scott turned back to the ghost, his eyes flaring. He felt a growl rumble from the back of his throat and he bared his teeth at her. Liam was flanking him instantly. Mason, Melissa and Stiles were together behind them, ducking low, covering their heads from the falling debris.

The ghost froze at Scott’s growl, the objects freezing in midair. Everything was suddenly eerily quiet, and the only things Scott could hear were the overlapping beats of his pack’s hearts, fast, even, adrenaline polluting the air around them.

The ghost was crying—if that’s what you would call it, tracks of her empty tears staining her transparent face. Now that she wasn’t screaming, Scott could tell how young she seemed, how sad she looked. He didn’t let up on his protective stance, keeping his eyes locked on her in, admittedly, a very predatory way. He couldn’t help the anger turning his vision red—she was _attacking_ his pack. She tried to kill Stiles. But there was something like pity edging its way into his gut, and as angry as he was, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to help this poor girl.

Kira returned seconds later, freezing when she saw the stillness of the room, the container of salt in her hands. The ghost eyed it for a second with red-rimmed eyes and before they knew it, she was inhaling deeply, as if to start wailing again.

“Wait!” Scott cut in hastily, holding his hands up. “Don’t scream. Or cry. We’ll stop, okay?” His claws shortened, rounded off as his eyes faded, the wolf melting off of his face. When he spoke, his teeth were dull and human. “See? We won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt us.” He shot a look at Kira, pleading, and after a minute she too nodded earnestly, hurrying back into the kitchen to put the salt away. Scott returned his gaze to the ghost girl, who was watching the doorway, another wail obviously on the tip of her tongue.

When Kira came back, salt-free, the ghost seemed to relax. She let out a breath which Scott only pondered about for a minute—how could she breathe if she was…?—before letting the objects still hovering in the air gently drop down to the floor. She returned her gaze to Scott, before nodding silently.

At that, Scott turned to his pack, instinctively assessing them for injuries. Mason and his mom were okay, and Kira only had a few scratches on her. Stiles had a few more, since he’d been stupid enough to jump into the fight himself, but it was only a few bumps and bruises. Liam was banged up pretty bad from taking the hits, shielding Mason from them, but he was already visibly starting to heal. Scott felt his heart rate slow a little, comforted by the fact that they were, for the most part, alright.

He turned back to the ghost, who had lowered so that she was standing lightly on the floor. She was watching them carefully, almost calculating—like she was analyzing them, taking them apart piece by piece and figuring out how they tick.

She glided lightly up to them, silent as—well—a ghost, eyes flickering back and forth between the six of them. The closer she got, the more the tension in Scott’s chest tightened, coiling like a snake. But, despite how violent and angry she’d been mere minutes ago, there seemed to be no malice in her eyes—blue eyes, Scott could see as she got closer. Blue eyes that seemed surprisingly alive, for a ghost.

Then she was in front of him, watching him closely, almost curiously. She frowned, lifting one of her light, transparent hands. She hesitated for a second, before gently placing it on his chest. Scott wasn’t expecting to feel it, but he could. It was almost solid, but not at the same time—like if he made even the smallest movement, it’d go right through. The coldness of it seeped through his shirt, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“You’re the Alpha,” she said, and now that she wasn’t screaming, her voice was almost melodic—high and lilting and sweet. Her eyes were wide, almost childlike. “I found you. Alpha McCall.”

“Scott,” he corrected, his eyebrows drawing together. He could feel his heat pounding, something in his gut uneasy. He was getting a bad feeling from this. “How do you know who I am?”

Now the ghost stepped back, removing her hand from his chest. She looked around at the rest of them, looking troubled. “Everyone knows the McCall pack,” she murmured quietly. “Protectors of Beacon Hills. Dangerous, very dangerous. True Alpha, a Hale, hunters and humans and banshees and foxes. Unconventional, yes, very unconventional—but dangerous. Strong.”

Stiles frowned, then, baseball bat still in his hand, though it was lowered at his side submissively. “What do you mean, everyone knows about us?”

She lifted her gaze to his, stepping closer to him. “The nogitsune boy,” she murmured, peering at him curiously. Stiles’ jaw tightened at the word, but he didn’t say anything. The ghost put her hand up to his cheek, almost gently, and gooseflesh rose on Stiles’ arms. “You have made history, where I am from,” she mused. Then she turned to the rest of the pack as well. “You all have.”

Scott swallowed, growing more uneasy with every word she said. “Where are you from?” he asked, then. “Why are you here?”

The look in her eyes grew troubled, again. She stepped back, away from them, wringing her pale wrists together. “I was sent here to—to tell you something. Something you’re not going to like.” Suddenly, she seemed very unstable again, like she might start crying again, or wailing. Some of the furniture practically vibrated with her anxiety. “Please—please don’t be angry with me.”

“Hey,” Scott tried to sooth her, despite his own anxiety growing. He held his hands up, palms out, as if to prove he was harmless. “We won’t be angry,” he promised. And he actually believed it. The anger he’d felt was practically nonexistent, now, replaced by worry and even sympathy for this poor girl. Looking at her, she couldn’t have been much older than he was when she died—which, of course, made his mind jump immediately to Allison. He couldn’t be angry. Not when her grieved, broken wails still echoed in his head, as if she was still, silently, screaming.

The ghost met his gaze nervously, biting her lip. “She’s in trouble,” she admitted quietly. “She needs your help.”

“Who?” Stiles asked, grip tightening on the handle of his bat. His face had gone stark white, like he suspected the answer, and it made his world fall apart. “Please, for the love of god, tell me it’s not who I think it is.”

But Scott knew, and his stomach tightened nauseously with the realization. “Lydia,” he exhaled, feeling like he’d been hit by a freight train. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t put it together sooner. Lydia always answered her phone.

The ghost nodded sadly, wincing a little. “Yes,” she said, though she looked like she’d rather have it any other way. “Your banshee is in trouble, Scott McCall. I’m here to help you find her.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What do you want from me?” Lydia asked, absolutely despising the tremble in her voice. The room was dark, the only light coming from a single bulb, hanging from the high, concrete ceiling. The bulb must have been old, because the light was so dim it barely reached the floor of the room. It made it just light enough to see the outline of some things, as if it bent the darkness into the shape of the objects.

Despite the darkness, she knew someone was there with her. It was just that feeling—the spine tingling, neck chilling feeling that someone was watching her. Some _thing_ was watching her.

And on top of that, she could feel the scream building in her chest, like she was inhaling, and inhaling, and she’d reached the point where she isn’t sure she can inhale anymore. It was ready to burst out of her at any second, but she swallowed it back. Whenever she screamed, bad things happened. Really bad things. And okay, maybe her screams were just a warning of what would happen anyways—but maybe they weren’t. Maybe, if she didn’t scream like every fiber of her being was aching to do, maybe nothing bad would happen.

A girl can dream.

Not getting any response, she pulled against her restraints. The ropes dug into her wrists painfully, and she could feel her skin being rubbed raw, almost bleeding.  The way her arms were twisted around her back, around the pole she was tied to, she could feel the strain struggling was putting on her joints. Not to mention the broken arm she was pretty sure she’d gotten attempting to fight her captor off in the first place.

If she could only get her hands out, she could untie herself and find a way out. But the knots were like steel, and all struggling against them did was make it hurt even more.

Man, what she wouldn’t do to be a werewolf right then. It wasn’t the first time she’d been frustrated about it—because it was frustrating sometimes, damn it. They’d been tossed into this supernatural world, and Scott, Liam, and Malia got claws and fangs and super strength and super senses, and Kira got agility and speed and reflexes, and Stiles got _knowledge_ and smarts and survival instincts and he’d gotten stronger—hell, even Allison got training, and was smart and cunning and brave and had a strength Lydia could only dream about having.

And what did Lydia get?

She got the ability to scream really loudly when the voices in her head became too much, and a talent for finding dead bodies.

Yeah, it wasn’t the first time she’d envied the werewolves.

Sure, there were some parts she didn’t envy, like dealing with full moons—which even Scott admits are still hard for him, sometimes—or having the shortest temper in the history of short tempers, or accidentally shifting in the middle of very public places, like school—which they’d all done, at some point or another.

She just hated being so helpless. She hated always being the one that got kidnapped because she was the easiest target. She hated the fact that the title of banshee seemed to come with a side order of crazy and free “Please, come kidnap me,” sign.

She could feel her wrists bleeding now, from struggling so much. She’d tried asking for help, before—but of course, the one time she’d actively tried to use her power, it did nothing. Nothing, at all. She called out for help, from anybody—dead or alive. She’d even tried calling for Allison—banshees were kind of like ghost whisperers after all, weren’t they?

But she was met with silence.

She stopped struggling, deflating into the restraints and swallowing down the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t cry. No, she may be tied up, alone, in the dark, and scared out of her freaking mind, but she would not let herself cry.

She could feel eyes watching her, though she didn’t know from where—it was so dark. It was like she’d been swallowed by shadows.

“What do you want?” she asked again, and this time her voice was steadier, which surprised her. It sliced through the still silence like a knife, and like it broke a spell, she heard movement behind her.

There were fingers trailing up her bare arm, a light, feathery touch, like they were dancing across her skin. “I want you, Lydia,” a voice said, as Lydia felt the hair on her arms stand on end, goosebumps rising. It was a girl’s voice, but it was low, dangerous. The light touch of her fingertips turned sharp, like her nails had lengthened into claws.

Lydia suspected they had.

She couldn’t help but wince as they scratched against her skin, sharp, just hard enough to hurt yet not hard enough to draw blood. “I want  your help.”

Lydia swallowed again, trying desperately to keep the warble out of her voice. “Help with what?” she got out, flinching as one claw hit too hard, puncturing the skin. She could feel a warm drop of blood trail down her arm.

Then she was in front of her, though Lydia couldn’t see much of her features. All she could see were her ice blue eyes, and the way the dim, barely-there light reflected off of her pointed teeth. “Lydia Martin,” she mused, almost like she was entertained. “The banshee  of the McCall Pack. And here I thought you’d be more of a fight.” She shook her head. “Pathetic.”

Lydia grit her teeth, anger flaring in her stomach. “What. Do. You. _Want?”_ she repeated.

Her captor narrowed her eyes at Lydia, almost analytically. “That’s a loaded question, Lydia. I want a lot of things.”

Lydia felt her gaze harden. “What do you want from me?” she amended. “What do you want my help for?”

The sneer melted off of her face for a second, before returning, though not as intensely. “I need to use you to communicate with someone. Only a powerful banshee can do it, and as rumor has it, you’re about as strong as they get.”

Lydia tried not to let the surprise on her face show. There were rumors in the supernatural world about how strong she was? Even if they were untrue—which they were, obviously—it made something steady in her stomach. Still, she didn’t really want to die because of some stupid pride thing.

She shook her head. “Sorry to break it to you, but I’m not nearly as powerful as you think I am. I can’t help you.” She eyed her claws before raising her eyebrows. “Except with a manicure because, honey—those really need some TLC.”

The werewolf bared her teeth at Lydia, a low, animal snarl ripping from her throat. Lydia flinched back, letting out a little groan when it pulled at her hurt arm. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” the wolf sneered at her, before shaking her head. “Fine. If you can’t help me, then I’ll just get it over with and kill you now—”

“No!” Lydia cut her off quickly. “No, don’t. I—I can try. But I don’t…I don’t know how it works. I can’t guarantee I can help.”

Still obviously ticked off about the manicure comment, she kept her hard, unflinching glare locked on Lydia’s, and oh, if looks could kill…

“Well you’d better figure it out pretty damned soon,” she threatened, “or your little pack? They’re next.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes at her captor, trying to figure out how serious she was. “What are you, an Omega?” she accused, before shaking her head, a surge of confidence rushing through her. “You wouldn’t stand a chance against my pack. And if you just kill me, they’d find you. They’d kill you. You’d never get away with it.”

If Lydia thought the werewolf had been angry before, she didn’t know what anger was. Because then her clawed fingers were grabbing handfuls of Lydia’s hair, twisting through it painfully tight, pulling her against the restraints. Lydia felt tears spring to her eyes simply from the pain—though the fear that came along with the furious, animal face suddenly inches away from her own might have had something to do with it. She tried to pull back, but it only made the werewolf draw in closer.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with, here,” she murmured, though her words were a little mangled around her fangs. “I’m no Omega, banshee.”

Lydia flinched at her closeness, a shiver running down her spine. “You’re no Alpha, either,” she shot back, trying to keep the pain and fear she felt from her voice.

Now the wolf smiled, almost as if she was amused. “Maybe not,” she agreed, and nodded behind her, where suddenly, there were red eyes glowing, piercing the silent darkness, and drawing closer every second that passed. “But he is. And believe me, I’m the nice one.”

Fear shot through Lydia, and she pulled back from the werewolf painfully. She struggled against her restraints.

“Lydia, don’t struggle,” said a second voice—a man’s voice, this time, and a familiar one at that. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Lydia felt the tears in her eyes spill over, despite how hard she tried to swallow them back. “Just—just leave me alone,” she cried, shaking her head. “I can’t help you!”

“Now, Lydia, we both know that isn’t true. Stop struggling. Make this easier for all of us, won’t you?”

Lydia stilled, deflating against her restraints, feeling the blood from her wrists roll down her fingers, drip off her hands.

“There, was that so hard?” the man asked. “Now I need you to focus your power. I need to talk with someone who died a long time ago, and you’re the only one that can help me.”

Lydia swallowed again, feeling the tension coil in her chest. “What if I can’t?” she asked, her voice trembling.

His red eyes watched her carefully. “Then we kill off your pack, one by one, until you find the proper motivation. Maybe we should start with Stiles?”

Lydia choked back a sob at the threat, swallowing it down. She would stop crying. She would not give him that satisfaction. As soon as someone knows they can make you cry, they have power over you. She wouldn’t let herself cry—no matter how much she wanted to, she would not give him that power.  “What do you want me to do?” she asked finally, her voice quiet.

“It’s really quite simple, Lydia. I want you to scream.”

So she did. She stopped inhaling, closed her eyes, and let it out—and it was laced with all of the pain, and the fear, and the _anger_ she’d felt. She only hoped something good could come out of it. She hoped her pack could hear her. She hoped Scott could hear her.

She should’ve known that was part of the plan all along.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone, standing in the middle of a stark, bare, white room.


	3. Chapter 3

“I really am sorry,” the ghost repeated for what had to be the fifth time in ten minutes.  She was peering over at Scott’s bare back with a look so guilty on her face that Scott again found himself wanting to comfort her.

“I told you—it’s okay,” he assured her, wincing as his mom pulled one of the larger shards of glass from his back. He could feel the wounds beginning to heal, though he couldn’t help but flinch a little as his mom carefully pulled out the pieces.

The ghost bit her bottom lip, before shaking her head. “I don’t know what it is about this place,” she said, though it sounded more like she was thinking out loud than actually talking to someone. “I haven’t been here since I was—” she broke off abruptly, eyes growing sad, though she tried to continue as if the falter hadn’t happened. “There’s so much power in this plane. I’m not used to it.”

That made Scott frown. Despite the urgency he felt in his bones, the pull in his gut demanding he go find Lydia _right now,_ they had to get the glass out of his back first—he'd never be able to fight something off with the equivalent of a window of glass lodged in his body. And as long as they were there, he allowed himself a little curiosity. After all, they didn’t generally have ghostly contact. “What do you mean, this plane? There are other planes?”

“Mmm,” she murmured, nodding. “Many. But the one I’m from neutralizes power—dims it down. Like a punishment. It feels like a prison, sometimes. I’m not used to there being so much power just out in the open.”

Scott felt a familiar, sad tug at him stomach. “Where are you from?” he asked carefully, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he didn’t really want a response. It just—it felt like cheating, almost. Asking someone who’d died where they went. Cheating, wrong—and tactless. He winced. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that—actually, please don’t. I’m sorry.”

She smiled a little at him, shaking her head. “Scott McCall, it’s not a crime to be curious.”

“Still,” Scott winced, feeling the biggest of the shards being extracted from what felt like deep in his spine. Once it was out, he was surprised at how much easier it was to breathe evenly, and when it fell to the floor next to him with a _tink,_ he saw that it was easily as big as a dagger. “I shouldn’t have asked,” he continued, exhaling. “It’s not my business, and it was totally not okay. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged easily, though there was a strange expression in her eyes. “It’s alright. Nothing I haven’t been asked before.”

The way she said it made something sad tighten in his stomach. More than ever, he wanted to help her, wanted to erase the almost lost look in her eyes—but there was someone who needed his help more, and it was like his mother’s voice snapped him back into reality. A reality that felt more like another nightmare. Because Lydia was still missing.

“Done,” Melissa said, squeezing his shoulders a little, before wiping his back down with a facecloth dampened with warm water.

Now the ghost dragged her gaze away from Scott’s still slightly bleeding back to look at Melissa. “I’m sorry for…” she gestured at the wrecked house around them. “I’d offer to pick up for you, but I—” she broke off, lifting her transparent hands forlornly. She made like she was trying to pick up the lamp next to her, but her hands went straight through. She winced.

“That’s alright,” Melissa assured her, eyes scanning the room. “I needed to redecorate, anyways. Now at least I have an excuse to.”

It was then that Stiles burst through the front door, arms piled with pillows and clothes that were very obviously not his—they were Lydia’s. He dropped them to the floor of the middle of the room, before being followed in by Derek, Malia, Kira, and an arguing Liam and Mason.

“You’re not coming!” Liam was insisting angrily, and Scott could hear how dangerously fast his heart was beating.

“Why not? Stiles is going!” Mason protested, just as angrily. “Liam—”

“No!” Liam cut him off. “You’re not coming!”

By the look on Derek, Kira, Stiles, and Malia’s faces, they’d been at this for a while.

Stiles, obviously frustrated with them, clenched his hands into fists. “There are more important things to be worried about right now,” he cut in, and it was obvious it took a lot of effort to keep the anger out of his voice.

“How come Stiles gets to go and I don’t?”

“Gets go to? Mason, you think this is a vacation? You think we’re just going for a road trip? This is serious! It’s dangerous!”

Stiles turned to Scott, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “They’ve been at this since we left for Lydia’s, and won’t listen to a word we say. It’s your turn. Control your pack, because obviously none of us can.”

Pulling on a new shirt, Scott stood, wincing a little as the material rubbed against his back. “Guys,” he cut in, putting a hand on Liam’s shoulder, and immediately, they quieted down. “Stiles is right. We don’t have time to argue about something like this.” He looked at Liam when he spoke again. “Mason has the right to come if he wants to. But,” he added, moving his gaze to Mason’s, “we have no idea who or what took Lydia, which means coming with us is probably the stupidest thing you could do and could possibly end up getting you killed. But it’s your choice.”

Mason crossed his arms. “I’m coming,” he said confidently, like he’d accepted some sort of stupid challenge.

Freshmen.

Liam looked like he wanted to protest, but bit it back with a look from Scott. After a moment, he nodded reluctantly.

Stiles had started pacing, like he was overflowing with anxious energy. “How do you know Lydia is in trouble?” he asked the ghost, after a moment. “I mean—are you absolutely sure? How do you know?”

The ghost, caught off guard, frowned a little bit. “She told me she was. Didn’t I tell you that?”

Now Stiles froze, turning to her skeptically. “What do you mean she _told_ you? You’ve talked to her?”

The ghost girl looked confused. “Er—yes?” she said, though it came out as more of a question. “Well, kind of. She’s talked to me—but there was something in the room stopping me from answering.”

Stiles threw his hands up again. “So then why the hell did I just go ransack her bedroom to find things with her scent on it, if you already know where she is?” he exclaimed, angry frustration creeping into his voice. “It was a waste of time—we could’ve saved her by now!”

The ghost girl looked hurt, and her lip trembled a little bit. With it, the loose objects around the room started to rattle, like they were buzzing with energy. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered out quietly, shaking her head. “I didn’t—I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“So am I!” Stiles cried. “But ‘sorry’ isn’t going to make Lydia any safer! ‘Sorry’ isn’t going to save her!”

Clear tears welled up in her eyes, and the rattling became harder, more violent. “I’m—I’m sorry…”

Derek clapped a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, stopping him from another outburst. “Hey, dumbass,” he whispered quietly to him, “maybe yelling at the unstable teenage ghost that happens to be more powerful than all of us combined isn’t such a great idea.” He lifted his gaze to the ghost girl, shrugging almost apologetically. “No offense.”

Stiles clenched his hands into quivering fists at his sides. “Fine,” he said through his teeth, though he obviously thought it was the opposite of fine. “I’m sorry.” He turned on his heel to Derek and Scott. “Can you guys please just smell the fucking pillows and start tracking her, already? Unless Casper over here decides she actually wants to help?”

Scott frowned, putting  a hand on his shoulder. The air around him reeked of anxiety—a tight, grey, cold kind of smell. “Hey,” he said, dropping his voice a little. “We’re gonna find her. We will. I’m not—” he broke off, faltering a little. “I’m not losing another pack member. I won’t let that happen to you guys.” He shook his head, steady, adamant, but sad. “Not again.”

At that, the anger seemed to fizzle out of Stiles, who simply seemed tired, hints of desperation in his eyes and voice. “Scott, we can’t—” he started, but stopped when his voice hitched a little. “We have to find her,” he amended. “Please, we just…we have to find her.”

Scott nodded, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder. “We will,” he promised. He brought his gaze back to the ghost, who Derek was trying to sooth a little. “Do you know where Lydia is?” he asked her, keeping any hint of anger out of his voice. He didn’t want to upset her even more.

She swallowed, and the things that were still slightly vibrating around the room slowly stopped. “I don’t know—kind of. I know where she's being kept, but not where she is exactly. I appeared there and then I blinked and I was here. I don't know how it happened. All I know is that she was calling for someone, and they weren't answering, so I thought I should try and help. We don't really get calls like that a lot--it was intriguing. I mean--it's not like I was doing anything, anyways. I'm a ghost. Not much to do."

Feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl, Scott rubbed a hand across his face tiredly. He wondered what ghosts did. He wondered if everyone that died became a ghost. He wondered why, if not, some people became ghosts and some didn't. Where did those who didn't become ghosts go when they died? But something she had said rang in the back of his mind. "She was calling for someone?" He asked carefully."Who?"

The ghost shrugged, her temporary power flare fizzling out. "I mean, first it was for you--her pack, she said. I didn't understand what she meant by that. It makes sense, what with the whole..." She trailed off, gesturing at Scott. "Claws, thing. Wolves, right? I've never met any werewolves before now. Heard about them, yes, but never met any." She shrugged again, a frown touching her lips. "Then she was calling for some girl named Allison."

Scott's chest tightened at the name, mind immediately remembering the sound of her laugh, the warm brown of her eyes, the scent of her skin. He tried to push back the other things--like the echo of her heartbeat slowing and slowing until it stopped altogether, the scent of her blood, coating her lips, seeping through his clothes. The look in her eyes when she told him she loved him, for the last time. _Scott McCall_.

He swallowed it back. "But you don't know where she is?" he clarified, voice a lot steadier than he'd anticipated.

The ghost shook her head sadly, as if she too could sense the cloud of loss hovering above their heads. "It looked like a basement, almost. Big, and dark--but there was another floor, too. She was downstairs. The upstairs was like an abandoned warehouse, or something." She bit her lip a little, wringing her hands together. "I'm sorry, I--I don't know anything else. I just--I don't know."

Stiles, who was more anxious than angry, now, rubbed the back of his neck as he paced. "Well was there anything else you can give us? A--a road sign, or a nearby gas station? Anything?"

The ghost's eyes brightened, then. "Right!" she exclaimed, and a glass candle holder across the room popped, shattered to pieces that _clinged_ lightly as they hit the floor. "Oops," she winced, looking sheepish again. "Sorry." Then she shook her head, as if she was clearing it. "There's a spiral on the wall. Er--in the wall. It's kind of--I don't know. A hole. Straight through the wall. In the shape of a spiral." She winced. "Yeah."

Scott and Derek exchanged looks, and Scott's chest tightened again, only for a completely different reason. "The distillery?" Derek asked, seeming uneasy. "You don't think...?"

Scott sighed, shaking his head. "God," he breathed, "I hope not."

Melissa, seeing the exchange and understanding that they knew more than they were letting on, was the one to break the silence that followed. "You think you know who took her?" she asked carefully. 

Then Scott looked at Stiles, who seemed to understand too. Realization dawned in his eyes followed almost immediately by dread.

"Yeah," Stiles exhaled wearily.  "Deucalion."


	4. Chapter 4

Memories plagued Scott’s mind as they drove, that night more vivid in his mind than most. It was the night tainted by fear, the fear that his mother would be gone, the fear that Stiles’ father, Allison’s father, would become the victims of a fate they never deserved, drawn into danger simply because of the lives their children lived…

That was the night Scott became an Alpha—the night he broke through that mountain ash, even though every bone in his body fought against him.

That was the night where they unknowingly let the nogitsune out, the night that blindly allowed the horror into their lives. The night they accidentally opened the doors into their minds.

That was the night that indirectly allowed for Allison’s death.

“I told you letting him go was a bad idea,” Stiles quipped, shaking Scott of his reverie. “But does anyone listen to Stiles? No.”

“Who is this again?” Liam asked, from the backseat. “This ‘demon-wolf’ guy?”

Something churned in Scott’s stomach—how could he forget? The way Deucalion’s face changed, more than any werewolf’s should, just like Peter’s… And the way Scott’s had, that night in the warehouse…

“A really freaking evil dude, that’s who he is,” Stiles grumbled, then looked over quickly at Scott. He returned his attention to the road before doing a double take, clapping Scott on the shoulder. “Heyo, Scotty—you okay?”

Scott shook his head, trying to shake off the heaviness he felt in his bones. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be better when we get Lydia back, but I’m okay.”

Stiles nodded in agreement, before casting another look in the backseat. Liam was sitting in the seat behind Stiles, Kira in the middle, but behind Scott…behind Scott sat the ghost girl, who had said next to nothing since spilling the beans about the spiral in the wall. She appeared to be lost in thought, which was curious to Scott. What kinds of things did ghosts have to worry about?

“Hey,” he said, turning in his seat. “You know Stiles isn’t really mad at you, right? He was just worried about Lydia.”

The ghost girl wrung her wrists together idly. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” she said sadly. “But I really—I really am sorry, Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles didn’t say anything for a minute, but when he did, his tone was softer than Scott expected it to be. “It’s okay. You’re only trying to help—hey, if it wasn’t for you, we still wouldn’t know she was even in danger. So thanks.”

That made the ghost smile a little, and the motion made her blue eyes seem even more alive. Scott felt a pull in his gut—he wanted to understand this girl, he wanted to figure her out, wanted to know where she came from, who she is…but she wasn’t a puzzle for him to solve, and there were more important things to worry about.

Behind the Jeep, Derek was following in his own car, along with Malia and Mason—he thought it’d be best to separate him and Liam, even if only for the drive. Neither would be too helpful if they killed each other before they ever even got to the distillery. Over the sound of the engines, Scott couldn’t hear much from them, which made him nervous. But they were with Derek, he knew—and he trusted Derek. He might not be an official member of the pack (per his own decision—Scott was all for it), but he was as good as.

The ghost girl leaned forward a bit, towards Kira, who looked interested but also kind of apprehensive. They never really knew what to expect out of the ghost. Scott took what she had said earlier and gathered that the emotional pulls on this plane were stronger than those on others…whatever that meant. He really just hoped she wouldn’t start screaming again.

Instead, she lifted her hand to Kira’s cheek, and Scott could practically see the hairs on Kira’s skin stand on end. “You have a beautiful aura, Kira,” the ghost girl said quietly, and her eyes were big with awe. “A big, bright, beautiful aura.”

After a moment, a little nervously, Kira smiled. “Well, uh—thank you.”

“Could I ask you something?” the ghost said suddenly, looking back at Scott now. “Something I think you might not want me to ask?”  
Scott felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach, and he winced a little as Stiles rounded a corner far too quickly. Still, this girl was helping them save Lydia—no matter the question, she had, in Scott’s mind, earned the right to pry a little.

“You could ask me something after?” the ghost continued, wringing her hands together again. “Something you think you shouldn’t ask me?”

Internally debating, Scott couldn’t help but nod—she had rights to answers, and there were questions that, despite everything that was happening, he was dying to ask. “Okay. Go for it.”

The ghost girl took a deep breath, like she had to prepare herself mentally. “Who…who is Allison? Did she—I mean, I know she…” she shook her head. “What happened?”

Something in Scott’s stomach knew that was going to be her question. He wasn’t sure how, but he did. And she deserved to know—if it were true that Lydia had been calling out to Allison’s ghost, a thought that made Scott’s heart lurch equally in pain and in sympathy for Lydia, she had every right to know who she was filling in for. It was, essentially, why she had come to find the pack in the first place.

He suddenly felt carsick, which was odd, because A) he’s never been carsick in his life and B) he rarely ever gets sick anymore. Still, nausea churned unpleasantly in his stomach, and he found it difficult to swallow down the lump in his throat.

“She was a hunter,” Stiles said softly, supplying the info Scott couldn’t reach. He nodded, numbly. “Her name was Allison Argent.”

At that, there was a flicker of recognition on the ghost girl’s face, followed shortly by what Scott swore to be awe. “You had an Argent huntress in your pack?” she asked, her eyes wide and alive with wonder. “The Argents are one of the oldest, strongest families of hunters in history.”

At that, Scott couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah,” he found himself saying, “she was definitely an Argent.”

If ghosts could shudder and blush, Scott would’ve sworn she had. “I’m—I’m sorry, just…wow. I heard the McCall Pack was special, but this?” She shook her head, breathless. “Wow.” Then, as she thought, her expression turned a little sad. “She was a good friend of Lydia’s, I take it,” she said carefully, half like a question, half like a statement. “The way she called for her, it was like—it was like she was calling for an angel.”

Kira looked like she may cry—swallowing hard, she moved to cover the girl’s hand with her own, but froze, letting it drop back to her lap. “They were best friends,” she said shakily, nodding. “She died protecting her. And the rest of us.”

Now the ghost girl smiled again, only this time, it made her eyes sad. “A hero’s greatest accomplishment is the one they give their life for,” she said quietly. Her eyes met Scott’s. “A warrior in life will live forever an angel of those they protected.”

And with that, Scott didn’t feel so nauseous anymore. It was like a lead weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and there was a little bit less pain for him to carry. Because as corny as it sounded, Allison’s legacy lived on—as long as they were alive, her memory would never fade. He wouldn’t let it.

Then, looking at Kira again, the ghost girl frowned. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry, I didn’t—I was curious, that’s all, I didn’t—” Her words came out quicker and quicker, wringing her hands tighter with each second. “I’m sorry, Scott McCall, I didn’t think—”

“Hey,” he tried to sooth her. “It’s okay. Don’t worry.” But even with their reassurances, the ghost girl seemed to get even more upset. The doors to the Jeep had started rattling, and even with Kira trying to sooth her, and Scott promising her that she hasn’t upset them, her anxiety grew. With it, the Jeep’s radio turned on, flipping through random stations. Doors began rattling in their locks, the radio blaring loud enough to make Scott’s ears ring painfully. Until—

“What’s your name?” Stiles called over the commotion, and suddenly, after a slight hesitation, it fell silent once more.

The ghost girl looked stunned, blinking at Stiles, astounded. “W-what?” she hiccupped.

“Your name,” Stiles repeated, clearly relieved that the haywire radio was quiet again. “I mean, you must’ve been called something, right? It feels kind of rude to keep referring to you as ‘the ghost girl’ all the time.”

A second passed, a second where the girl's eyes grew big and grateful, seeming more alive than ever. "Alicia," she said quietly. "My name is Alicia."

Looking over his shoulder quickly before turning back to the road, Stiles smiled at her a little. "Well, then, it's nice to meet you, Alicia. Thank you for helping us save our friend."  
"Your banshee is lucky to have friends like you," Alicia said, and a new kind of thing was on her face—a smile that reached her eyes, if only a little bit. "I'm honored to help." Then the smile faded, and she looked so genuinely sympathetic that Scott almost felt bad at how bad she felt. "I'm very sorry for your loss," she said quietly, her gaze drifting from Stiles to Kira and finally back to Scott. "She sounds like she was a real leader."

Scott smiled a little. "She was," he agreed, nodding.

"If it makes a difference," Alicia started, "your banshee is very powerful. She called a lot of us to her— in calling for help, hundreds of ghosts appeared." At Scott's raised eyebrows, Alicia smiled a little. "Yes, she really is that powerful. Besides, I told you— ghosts don't have much to do. We get calls and come running. Surprisingly enough, not many people ask dead people for help. Go figure."

Scott couldn't help but smile a little, sensing the growing ease in Alicia— she wasn't so anxious, anymore, which made him feel good. He hated the nervousness she had conveyed, like she was trying so hard to get them to accept her as someone worthy of helping them.

"But Allison wasn't there," she continued, solemnly. There was something else in her voice too, though, something almost...honored. "I might not know her, but I would've known if an Argent Huntress had shown up."

"What do you mean?" Kira pressed gently.

Alicia smiled again, though a little sadly— almost regretfully. "Only ghosts can answer banshee calls directly," she explained. "Those who have moved on have a harder time connecting to this plane long enough to communicate."

Scott felt his eyebrows draw together. Was she telling them Allison had 'moved on'? That she wasn't on this plane anymore? It made something sink in his stomach and loosen in his chest at the same time. Part of him was relieved— Allison had moved on to better things. In death, she had left behind the world of pain and suffering and finally was at peace. Another part of him, he was ashamed to admit, was disappointed. A part of him that wasn't totally ready to let go, wanted to see her one last time— wanted to look into those brown eyes and tell her how much he cared about her, how grateful he was for what she had done to save them.

Maybe that was why Scott had been so intrigued by Alicia. He wanted to figure out the whole afterlife thing— see if there was any possible chance of him talking to Allison again. Which wasn't really fair to the ghost girl, honestly.

"Scott McCall," Alicia said sadly, seeming to sense the internal struggle within his chest, "your hunter is resting easy." Her voice was gentle, sympathetic, as she spoke, and it reminded Scott of lightly ringing wind chimes in the spring breeze. Comforting. "Moving on in death...its much more than leaving. It's finding peace. Lingering in the world, staying? It's...it's almost like watching a movie of the universe, seeing those you love move on while you stand invisible, frozen in time. I wouldn't wish that existence upon anyone, especially not someone as honorable as Allison Argent."

Scott couldn't find his voice, for a moment. He felt sad, and proud, and sympathetic all at the same time. He knew she was speaking from personal experience. He could tell how hard it was for her to say the words aloud, and he appreciated it more than words could express. He felt his gaze drop, not knowing how to respond.

Then, there was a cool, feather-light touch on his hand, and he looked up. Alicia's hand on his, again, felt solid, but not at the same time— almost as if it was a solid, cold wind pushing against his skin. She smiled at him a little. "Scott McCall, we are going to get your banshee back. I promise."

Scott couldn't help but smile a bit back at the words. Slowly, he nodded a little. "Thank y—" he started, but cut off suddenly.

Hands flying to cover his ears, he squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden shrill screaming in his head. It was a scream he knew, a scream that made a lead weight sit in his gut, a weight that pulled him down, into dark feelings of protect, defend, attack, protect, defend, attack.

Lydia's scream was blinding, deafeningly loud in his ears, as if she was sitting right beside him. He shot a look to Stiles, who had looked over at him with alarmed eyes, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

"Scotty? What's—what's going on?"

A flash of an image in Scott's mind— Lydia, alone, scared, engulfed in a blinding white light...no, not a light...a room. The white room. She was hurt, and Scott's arm throbbed painfully, his wrists burning as if they had had the skin rubbed raw off of them. He clenched his teeth together, trying somehow, someway to communicate with her, to tell her they were coming, they were going to save her...

But the image slipped from his mind, and within seconds the scream faded from his ears, leaving them ringing. "Stiles," he gasped out in a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Stiles, drive faster."

Audibly putting more pressure on the gas pedal, the Jeep lurched forward. "Yes, sir."

Seconds later they were coming to a short, abrupt stop next to the distillery, Roscoe jerking forward and back with the sudden braking. Throwing the doors open and jumping out, engine still running, Scott made it about five hasty steps toward the distillery door before being hit in the chest with what felt like a boulder, flying back and hitting the jeep so hard he was honestly shocked there wasn't a dent left in it.

"Well," said a feminine, unfamiliar growl of a voice. "Could this be him? Is this Mr. True Alpha Scott Mc-Freaking-Call that everyone loves so goddamn much?" She approached him confidently, aggressively. "I've gotta say, I'm a bit disappointed. I was expecting someone a bit more..." She trailed off, smiling nastily, fangs exposed. "Animal."

"Don't tempt me," Scott shot back, pushing himself back to his feet.

And the next moment, they were fighting head on, claws flashing, growls ringing throughout the woods around them. It didn't last long, however. Seconds later a wind so fierce picked up that the werewolves were practically pulled away from each other, as if they were magnets repelling each other.

Angrily looking up, the female werewolf snarled into the darkness. "What was that?" She growled, looking around.

Alicia appeared at Scott's side, a look of pure hatred on her face. "You will not harm Scott McCall, or his pack," she threatened. She looked at Scott quickly. "Take your friends and save your banshee," she ordered him, and looked back at the werewolf. "I will take care of this one."

At that, the female werewolf laughed. "You?" she cackled, doubtfully. "What do you suppose you can do to me? Haunt me to death?"

At that, Alicia smiled sweetly. "Oh, sweetheart," she said, her voice dripping menace in a way that sent chills down Scott's spine. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

And as Scott, Stiles and Kira retreated to the distillery, the woods around them exploded into chaos.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Comes back two years later with a short chapter and Starbucks*
> 
> This story has so many subscriptions and I'm SO SORRY I suck at keeping up/finishing things. I'm not gonna lie, I lost inspiration for this story a while back, and I'm still not entirely sure I've found it again, BUT I had a half-finished chapter in my doc and it was killing me. I'm not giving up on this fic, but I'm also not sure when the next time inspiration will strike or even IF my muse will return. All I know is that this fic needed at least one more Lydia-centric chapter, and I need to explore that damn White Room, at least a little bit. 
> 
> This chapter is super short. I wrote the first half of it about two years ago, the second half about 15 minutes ago. Can you spot the shift in the writing? Lol
> 
> Y'all deserve a longer chapter than this if you actually stuck around for this story, and I'm so sorry this isn't entirely up to par..

Being in that white room was like being forced to watch grass grow. After wandering around for a few minutes and discovering absolutely nothing, Lydia had had just about enough.

It was too bad she didn’t know how to leave.

The last time she’d been there, she and Scott had been in Stiles’ head—a memory she wasn’t ashamed to admit still scared the living daylights out of her. Honestly, everything that had happened concerning the nogitsune had scared the living daylights out of her. Not only had he killed her best friend, but he had done something to Stiles that could never be undone, hurt him in a way that Lydia knew he’d never be able to completely recover from. It made her skin itch with fury at the thought.

And because of that, because of the horror the nogitsune had brought into their lives, the fear Lydia had felt towards Deucalion and the Alpha pack had almost seemed trivial in retrospect. With the nogitsune being a more immediate threat to the people she loved, suddenly the whole Darach-versus-Demon-Wolf thing didn’t seem that bad anymore.

Until Lydia was face to face with the Demon Wolf himself, that is. Seeing him here, in person…it brought back how truly horrible the entire ordeal had been. The menace in his blood red eyes, the contortion of his features, the dark, more-wolf-than-werewolf creature he turned into—she had never expected it to be as bad as it was.

Last time, it had taken a Dark Druid and two werewolves to take him down, and he wasn’t even put down for the count. They let him go—wait, no. Correction: Scott let him go. Which really was the noble thing to do, Lydia supposed. Everyone deserves a second chance, and that’s just the kind of guy Scott McCall was. She didn’t blame him for what was happening, especially not when she knew he’d probably be beating himself up over it enough for the both of them.

And if he wasn’t, Stiles definitely was.

 _Stiles,_ she thought. _What would Stiles do if he were here?_ Well, for one thing, he probably wouldn’t be frozen in place because of his fear, that’s for sure. No, Stiles would move on from the fear and use it to his advantage—he would use the adrenaline and be proactive about his situation. But what could she do? She had no idea where she was. She couldn’t see anything in any direction except a room so bright white it was starting to hurt her eyes.

Last time she was there, she had been in Stiles’ head. So whose head was she in now? Deucalion’s? Her own? The female Beta’s?

Walking, here, was an awful lot like walking on a treadmill. Her surroundings never changed, and it didn’t take long until she was dizzy and disoriented, her eyes not perceiving the sensation her mind and body was feeling of _movement._ She sank to the pristine, white floor. It felt like tilting tile under her hands.

She winced, using her left hand to support her right one as she shifted her position. She always bruised well, Lydia. Pale skin and a shock of red hair, the bruises that flawed her skin always appeared as an immaculate painting of blues and greens and purples. Now, these bruises brushed along her forearm, where it became more apparent that she had, indeed, broken her arm. It throbbed painfully, as lower, her wrists were speckled with dots of blood and blistered skin.

She grit her teeth, closing her eyes as she exhaled deeply. Okay. She had to do something. What had happened the last time they were there, in that white room? She considered it, thinking back. She and Scott had found Stiles and the Nogitsune sitting on the nemeton, playing Goh. Maybe she should try to find the nemeton again – maybe it would act like a radio tower, allow her to access some sort of otherworldly power and get herself out.

Or maybe she was just grasping at straws. She groaned, opening her eyes and returning to her feet. Maybe it would be best to figure out who’s _head_ she was in?

But, no. When Scott, Allison and Stiles had sacrificed themselves in place of their parents, they’d also ended up there, in the White Room. They weren’t in anyone’s heads that time. Then, too, they’d found the nemeton, and used it to get themselves out.

She sighed. Okay. Nemeton hunting it was.

She turned in place, deciding on a direction to search in, and closed her eyes once more. “Come on,” she murmured, under her breath. “Come on, Lydia—put those banshee powers to good use. Come on.”

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting—for her ‘banshee powers’ to remain dormant, stubborn in their hibernation unless brought out by force. She was surprised to feel a tug in her chest, a slight swelling that could only be described as _directional._ Her eyes flew open, and met once more with the vast white nothingness, the feeling in her chest dwindled.

“No, no, no,” she protested, louder, and closed her eyes again, reaching out with her mind, with those bizarre _other_ senses she had, the ones she followed without meaning to sometimes, the ones she didn’t realize were _wrong_ until she’d repeatedly followed them straight to dead bodies. “Come _on.”_ The words came out as more of a growl than anything, but a moment of frustration later, she felt the swell in her chest again.

She kept her eyes squeezed shut, turning towards it. She took a deep breath, picturing the white eternity around her, visualized herself within it. In her mind and in her body, she took a step forward, and the tug in her chest held steady. Okay. This was progress.

She continued to follow the _feeling,_ following it at a slow but steady pace, eyes shut tight against every instinct her body was screaming at her. She was moving, she should _look out_ for where she’s going…but no, when she’d opened her eyes, the tug in her chest had almost disappeared entirely.  Granted, the feeling could entirely be made up in Lydia’s head anyways – somatoformic, wanting so badly to feel something, _anything,_ that she actually perceived it to be true. But she had nothing else to go on, so she was just going to roll with it while she still could.

Some part of her mind wanted to reach out to Scott, to Stiles and Malia and Kira. See if she could contact them somehow, from in there. But she was afraid she’d lose the feeling for good if she tried, so instead she focused all of her energy on that, on following and feeling and sensing and _seeing_ with her eyes shut. 

Her heels clicked on the tiles as she left an eternity of white in her wake.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just assuming after the end of Season 4 that they told Mason about everything (because he, you know, was almost killed by a giant bone rage monster) and he's kind of an honorary pack member. And Lydia angst! The season didn't really live up to it's whole "Lydia-centric" thing, but at least I can write something that does! Sometimes I'd rather fanfic be canon and canon be...not canon. But whatever. Also I will update the tags as I add each chapter! Let me know what you think! All comments are very welcome! :D


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